The Astronomer

By Lawrence Goldstone

Paris, 1534. A student at the Catholic Collège de Montaigu, serving as a courier for the Inquisition, is murdered by members of an extreme Lutheran sect for the packet of letters he is carrying. His friend and fellow classmate Amaury de Faverges—the illegitimate son of the Duke of Savoy and an expert in astronomy and natural science—is recruited as his replacement and promised a decree of legitimacy if he can uncover the secret that threatens to overturn Catholicism and the reign of François I. Working undercover, Amaury journeys south to the liberal court of the king's sister, Marguerite of Navarre, the alleged heart of the conspiracy. The deeper he probes, the more Amaury is forced to confront his own religious doubts; and when he discovers a copy of Copernicus's shocking manuscript showing the sun at the center of the universe, he knows the path he must follow. Replete with characters and events from history—from the iconoclastic Rabelais to the burning of heretics in Paris to preacher John Calvin and Copernicus himself—The Astronomer is a powerful novel of love and betrayal, and a thrilling portrait of what might well have happened at a hinge point in history when science and ancient religious belief collided.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pegasus Crime
• Release date: Nov 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781681776033

Lawrence Goldstone

Lawrence Goldstone is the author or co-author of more than a dozen books, and he has written for The Wall Street Journal, Los Angeles Times, The Boston Globe, The New Republic, Chicago Tribune, and Miami Herald. He and his wife, author Nancy Goldstone, live in Sagaponack, New York.

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I

Paris, La Ville. February 19, 1534

THE GAUNT MAN in the gray robes of a Franciscan friar walked the chill streets for most of the day, the coarse wool of his cloak bristling against his legs and his sandals echoing a soft clack-clack on the stone. He certainly looked the mendicant, all hollow cheeks, stubble, and deep-set eyes, and thus experienced little difficulty in arousing the guilt of the many stylish Parisians who passed him by. As the late-winter sun dipped below the towers of the Louvre, Frère Jean-Marie, as he called himself, had taken in the princely sum of ten silver francs. He deposited the munificence in the boîte des pauvres, the poor box, in église des Celestins. The needy, after all, were the needy, even if they were Catholic.

When the last traces of daylight had vanished, the Franciscain ventured to rue des Bales to choose the most strategic location for his vigil. He had hoped to scrutinize the comings and goings from the safety of shadows, but the moon was full in a cloudless sky. At last he settled on a niche next to the doorway of a tavern at the bend of the street on the southern side. He was visible, but at least his features would remain indistinct in the reflected moonlight.

The Franciscain squatted, his back against the cold stone of the wall, and extended his begging bowl in front of him. The paving stones inclined downward from the buildings to form a crude drain at the center of the street. The smell of waste, both animal and human, permeated the air. After a few moments, his thighs began to burn. A lance of pain shot through his knees each time he shifted his weight. Five years before, when Frère Jean-Marie was not simply a nom de guerre, he had often remained in this position, without relief, for as long as eight hours. Such a fool he had been, he thought, begging for alms while the elders grew fat.

By reflex, his hand started to the tingling bare spot at the crown of his skull, the tonsure he had shaved the previous day. He quickly jerked it back. Followers of Saint Francis were inured to the tonsure. Rubbing might be a small thing, but small things were noticed. Even here, he might be the observed as well as the observer. Any misstep could mean betrayal to the Inquisition, and then imprisonment, torture, and slow roasting at the stake.

But he had chosen well. A steady flow of traffic to and from the tavern camouflaged what appeared to be just another of the Lord’s beggars attempting to capitalize on the shame of Christians about to break the Commandments. In less than an hour, he noted with irony, four more coins had been dropped into his bowl.

Finally, on the opposite side of the street, the door to the shop opened. The boy who emerged appeared slight, fragile, as if he might be carried away by a gust of wind. The hose, short doublet, cape, and soft cap he was wearing hung on him, as though borrowed and not his own. The friar ran a hand across his cheek. He had not been told he would be following a child.

As the door closed, the boy glanced nervously up and down the street. After a moment, he stepped out gingerly, and then, gathering himself, turned left, away from where the friar had established his post.

The Franciscain left the coins from his bowl on the street lest they jingle in his cloak, then forced himself stiffly to his feet, taking care not to appear hurried. Measuring the distance between himself and the youth, he set off in the same direction, remaining on the opposite side of the street.

The boy proceeded apace but then stopped abruptly at the corner. He felt at his sides, seeming to have forgotten something. This gave him the excuse to turn about and check behind. The friar continued to walk up the road, his empty bowl extended to three revelers who were at that moment fortuitously heading for the tavern. Feeling the boy’s eyes on him, Frère Jean-Marie stepped in front of the three and pushed the bowl aggressively at the man in the middle. The man was thickset and bearded, in the manner of King François, who was famous throughout France for his beard.

For God’s grace, the friar brayed, his bowl practically under the man’s chin.

God’s grace, indeed, the bearded man replied angrily. His breath smelled of sausage and cheap wine. A body cannot walk four paces in this city without one of you offering God’s grace. As long as it’s paid for, of course. The Franciscain did not move. Oh, all right, the man sniffed, here . . . He pulled a tiny coin from his purse. God’s grace will be cheap tonight, he grunted. He dropped the coin in the bowl and maneuvered around the friar as his friends did likewise.

Only after they had passed him did Frère Jean-Marie look up. The boy in the cape was gone.

The friar was certain he would have noticed had the boy crossed the road to go left. Frère Jean-Marie hurried to the corner and looked to the right. Candlelight seeped from the windows, illuminating his quarry scurrying away in small, quick steps. The friar followed at a distance, staying close to the buildings to remain in shadow. The boy at first made a number of twists and turns onto side streets, glancing over his shoulder. But soon he straightened his route and ceased to look back.

It occurred to Frère Jean-Marie that the boy was feeling the same dread, the same intensity to have the episode done with as was he. The boy, he decided, had spent so much time exercising total vigilance that now, with completion so close at hand, he was desperate for these last few moments to pass. Desperation bred a need for speed. Speed bred carelessness.

The friar was thus able to close the distance between them as they neared le Monastère des Religieuses de Zion. He exploded in perspiration. His cloak clung to him, the cold, bristly wool prickling in a thousand places against his skin.

The boy picked up his pace. When he reached the corner of the ancient monastery, he spun on his heel and turned right on grand rue Saint-Denis.

The friar turned into an alley that would lead him to where he might intercept the boy. Just short of breaking into a run, Frère Jean-Marie reached the wide boulevard just before his quarry emerged from the shadows. He took a position that would require the boy to pass in front of him and extended his begging bowl.

The friar waited until the youth was almost upon him, and then said in Latin, softly but in a manner that would command attention, "Subsiste, frater! Halt, brother! The youth froze. Go no further, if you value your life. Then, in a louder voice, in French: Sir, for God’s grace . . . " Frère Jean-Marie shoved his bowl under the boy’s chin.

The youth remained rigid. He was dark haired, with just a sparse frill of whiskers; handsome but unformed, like a sculpture not quite finished. His eyes fixed on the figure of the friar before him. A quiver appeared on his upper lip.

Frère Jean-Marie kept his bowl extended, staring into the boy’s eyes. The boy nodded finally and fumbled in his purse for some coins. When he leaned forward to place them in the bowl, the friar whispered sharply, again in Latin, Tu proditus es: You have been betrayed.

The boy’s eyes flitted from side to side. His breathing was audible in the night air.

I have been sent to help, Frère Jean-Marie whispered. You will not reach your destination alive unless you come with me.

Betrayed by whom? The boy’s voice squeaked, high-pitched.

Philippe Sévrier, Frère Jean-Marie replied, blurting out the first name that came into his head. A spy at the college.

I don’t know any Philippe Sévrier, the boy protested. He was frightened of heeding the friar and frightened of ignoring him.

But he knows you, said the friar, getting quickly to his feet. The meeting has been changed. I’m Frère Jean-Marie. I’m to take you by a safe route. You can give your communication then. You have it, yes?

The boy patted his doublet. Frère Jean-Marie took one step back to the north. The boy did not move. This was the moment—would the boy give in to authority and follow or, because of suspicion, fear, or just ordinary stubbornness, refuse and continue along his original route? The youth teetered on the possibilities as the friar stood, his hand outstretched, as if offered to a drowning man.

I’ve lost him, the friar thought. But then, no. The boy strode after him.

We must hurry, whispered Frère Jean-Marie as they moved east, away from the foot traffic. Our enemies are near.

They passed into darkened streets. The friar felt a tug on his cloak.

Where are we going? the boy asked. This is the wrong way.

We are going to enclos du Temple, the friar said sharply, cocking his head in the direction of the complex that held the great fortress of the Knights Templar. Without waiting for a reply, the friar resumed walking. Magister Ory himself awaits you.

Magister Ory? At the Temple? Why? The boy, having ceded prerogative, hustled along, whispering, as if to cement the conspiracy. How did he find out?

Frère Jean-Marie did not break stride. The heretic dog Sévrier was persuaded to confess. It is lucky for you that he did. They had come to a small, narrow street. The friar turned in. Quickly, he said, in here. It leads directly to our destination.

The boy hesitated only a fraction of a second before following. Frère Jean-Marie had steeled himself for what had to come next, but nonetheless felt his heart beating so rapidly that it felt as though it would explode from his chest. I must do it, he thought. Now.

The friar spun. Before the boy could see the dagger that had been concealed in the sleeve of his cloak, Frère Jean-Marie had plunged it into his abdomen, just below the breastbone. The friar withdrew and struck again, in almost the same spot.

Blood, warm and syrupy, spread over the friar’s hand and wrist. The boy, his eyes wide and uncomprehending, reeled back against the wall. He opened his mouth to cry out, but all that came forth was a soft gurgle. The boy shook his head feebly once or twice, then slid slowly to the ground. Within seconds, he was dead.

Frère Jean-Marie stared, partly in horror, partly in wonder, at what he had done. Then he glanced up and down the alley. There was no one, but exposure could come at any second. He reached frantically into the boy’s doublet. There were the two sheaves wrapped in oilcloth. The smaller had been given to the boy at the shop. The larger contained the great secret, the discovery that would change Christianity forever.

The friar removed both packets. Blood covered the wrappers. They were sticky to the touch. The friar jammed the parcels into his sleeve where the dagger had been. He stood and checked once more to the left and right. Still no one. No sound. He had the vague feeling of having forgotten something, but could not think what. The friar stuffed his gore-soaked right hand into his left sleeve and walked quickly from the alley in the opposite direction from the way he had entered. If he could make it to the street, he would be safe.

At the end of the alley, he peered out. God was with him. The road was deserted. He stepped out and made his way north. A huge breath escaped him as he passed into Saint-Antoine. He could leave this filthy city in safety. He had passed his mission unobserved.

Or so he thought.

II

Université de Paris, Collège de Montaigu, February 20, 1534

AMAURY DE FAVERGES grasped the icy metal door handle and then leaned gently against the cracked, pitted wood. A squeal of rusted hinges could betray him as quickly as a sentry. Flogging and a month in isolation on prayer, bread, and water in a bleak, airless, unheated cell would follow. But God was with him and the door gave way. Slowly and silently, Amaury pushed it open just wide enough to squeeze through. He had been dubious when Bernard, by all appearances nothing more than an amiable half-wit, had been recommended as an utterly reliable accomplice. But Giles had been correct. If Bernard was paid to see that a lock was disengaged at two hours after midnight, disengaged it would be. Four months and Bernard had not failed him once.

Amaury stepped inside and peered about. No one. He swung the door shut, set the bolt, then padded to the archway that led to the sleeping quarters. Amaury opened the sixth door on the right, again unlocked, with hinges he had greased himself. Only when the door closed behind him did he breathe easy.

He surveyed the cubicle that had been his home for nine years, sighed, and flopped down on the straw bed, poked and prodded by errant shafts.

There would be scant time to sleep before he was required at morning prayers.

To put himself in such peril, he thought. Simply to read a book.

Two hours later, Amaury stood in the same dank archway. This time he held a hooded candle in front of him. His empty belly roiled and his eyelids throbbed. But there would be no food for seven hours and no sleep for fifteen. He would spend this day like every other day, in prayer and endless disputation. If his eyelids drooped, even for a few seconds, the leather straps would crack across his back.

The moon had vanished, replaced by a cold late-winter rain—pleut de Paris. Students abhorred the demi-saison—too warm for the ground to freeze, but sufficiently cold for the mud to feel like ice when it oozed over the soles of their sandals. The chapel was easily reached through the passageways, but the college doctors, the magisters, had decreed that inclement weather was God’s will. Students were therefore required to walk across the open courtyard. The magisters, of course, kept under shelter.

Amaury suddenly felt a wave of dizziness and grasped the wall for support. Oh, God. To be back outside these walls, in his tiny rented room, exploring the wonders of the heavens—Aristotle’s logical formulations and Ptolemy’s inspired description of the Lord’s astral creations moving around the Earth, embedded in imperceptible spheres. Or pondering the German physician Paracelsus’s notion that disease was caused not by imbalance in the humors but by outside agents. Perhaps even to be able to observe a dissection at the school of medicine, where a new theory of human anatomy seemed poised to overthrow a millennium of ignorance.

But instead, Amaury de Faverges languished at Collège de Montaigu. Where learning was beaten in. How could anyone suppose that true education was attained through pain, deprivation, and forced devotion? That intimidation and abuse brought one closer to God? Yet that was most certainly what the Church fathers did believe. For they had chosen Montaigu, one of the smallest of the forty-two colleges that comprised the University of Paris, to be perhaps the most important center of ecclesiastical education in the Christian world.

Amaury gazed about. The very setting doused illusions of learning. Montaigu was housed in a squalid, centuries-old, three-story stone quadrangle erected around a miasmic courtyard. Green moss covered the roof, giving the configuration the feel of some great bog. The entrance was on rue Saint-Symphorien, a narrow, refuse-strewn thoroughfare also called rue des Chiens—the Street of Dogs. When Amaury arrived to begin his studies nine years before, he had been forced to pick his way along this open sewer to reach the main gate. Once inside, the stink of rot and human waste that covered the college like a shroud hit him full on, but the students scurrying in their hooded robes between the chapel, their bare stone rooms, and the grim classrooms seemed impervious. Amaury had learned to wear the same mask, but was never unaware of his misery.

But while dismal sobriety was prerequisite within the walls, outside they snickered. The great wit and scholar Erasmus, who had fled after a single year as a student here, described Montaigu as a filthy, bleak barrack, clotted with dirt and reeking of the foulest smells. Rabelais called it Collège de pouillerie—college of filth. But for once, neither Erasmus nor Rabelais had been able to outdo ordinary Parisians. On the streets of the city, Montaigu was commonly known as the very cleft between the buttocks of Mother Theology.

Crushed in that cleft, Amaury toiled, enduring beatings, feculence, lice, deprivation of sleep, terrible food, and trivial disputations. All to attain a position of honor. To become one of the doctors himself, a magister in theologia. To wipe away the stain of his birth.

And there were still six years to go.

Amaury could put the moment off no longer. He was about to step out into the muck when he felt fingers digging into his shoulder. He flinched, then spun about. Magister Ravenau stood before him, expressionless and forbidding.

Had Amaury’s absence been noticed after all? Perhaps it was nothing more than the few seconds of idleness in the archway. Ravenau reveled in dispensing discipline, either in God’s name or his own. So severe were his ministrations that, during his last beating, Amaury had almost cried out. The first time in five years. He had bit down on the side of his cheek, determined to deny Ravenau the satisfaction. When Ravenau had finished, Amaury swallowed the blood that filled his mouth.

Amaury stood stolidly in the cold and awaited the sentence. He hated the beatings. Not so much for the pain but for the humiliation of submitting to abominations like Ravenau. Of abdicating his will.

But there was to be no sentence. At least not yet. Ravenau had come with a summons. Amaury was to report to the syndic’s rooms immediately. Le Clerc. The head of the college.

Amaury slogged across the courtyard, the frigid droplets stinging his skin. The syndic’s chambers were on the top floor. Hunger and lack of sleep made the exertion of two flights of stairs near exhausting. He paused at the top, his temples pulsing in a dull, regular drumbeat. To the left of the hallway, a series of open vaults overlooked the courtyard. The entrances to the living quarters of the doctors were on the street side to the right. Three candles set in sconces along the right wall crackled, burned to their last bits of tallow, providing only bursts of illumination as they sizzled to extinction in the coming dawn.

At least this summons had not come three months earlier. If it had, Amaury would not be facing the ineffectual Le Clerc, but rather Noël Beda. Ascetic, unyielding, ever-righteous, soul-flaying Beda. A law unto himself. Beda, who had ordered men burned at the stake without consulting pope or king. But Beda, thank the Lord, had derided François’ authority once too often. After more than a decade of devout autocracy, Beda was finally gone. Probably dead. Le Clerc was mean and vindictive, it was true, but also pompous, vain, and fat. No half-herring, rotting-egg, stale-bread dinners for him. The new syndic was a man on whom no student feared foisting a whispered jibe. No one had ever made light of Beda.

Amaury blew out his own candle to preserve the remaining tallow. The sound of his breathing echoed softly off the stone. Even with one side open, the smell of mildew hung in the walkway. The heavy door was closed when Amaury arrived. He placed his candle on the small table next to the door, then rapped on the thick, darkened oak, as austere as the magisters whose privacy it ensured. His knuckles felt the scrape of hewn wood. He heard a metallic grate as the catch bolt was disengaged, then the door swung open to reveal Guillaume, Beda’s—now Le Clerc’s—ancient servant. Guillaume had likely been tall as a younger man but was now stooped and haggard, unshaven, virtually toothless, but with quick rat’s eyes and, it was suspected among the students, ears to match. More than once during Amaury’s tenure, the masters had acquired knowledge of whispered conversations held in the deepest secrecy.

Guillaume shuffled to one side. Amaury had never before entered these rooms. Inside were polished stone floors unadorned by carpets, and unpainted vaulted roof beams, oak like the door. The stone walls were largely bare, save for a case of books on the right. The books were old, folios, penned by scribes. No printed works here. The syndics lived for the past. A lectern for reading stood at the far end of the room under two small, plain windows. A pair of hard wooden chairs without cushions was set opposite the fireplace on the right, and a doorway on the left led to the master’s private chambers. Two candles, one on each wall, these freshly changed, provided muted light.

The room was empty aside from Guillaume. Amaury took two steps in and waited. No fire burned in the grate. A chill even more penetrating than that in the courtyard had settled in the room. He heard the door close behind him. Guillaume, who ordinarily was privy to every confidence, had not remained. Amaury waited. Finally, he heard shuffling in the other room, and then the sound of sandals on stone. Seconds later, the door creaked open and a figure emerged.

Passing through the doorway was not the fleshy Le Clerc, but rather, his face frozen in piety and perpetual accusation, the glowering figure of Noël Beda.

III

BEDA! HE WAS BACK. How was it possible? He had been arrested and exiled by the king himself. A sentence of death was said to have been applied by royal edict. And yet here he was, standing in his old rooms, the very personification of a wrathful God. Had he returned with François’ permission or in violation of the king’s order?

Tall and cadaverous, with a long, hooked nose and thin, bloodless lips, Beda moved slowly across the room, his arms buried to the elbow in the opposite sleeves of a maroon robe pulled in at the waist with a knotted ocher sash. He stopped at the near side of the lectern and turned to face Amaury straight on. His hair was white under a black peaked skullcap, his skin pallid, almost translucent, but his eyes—those eyes, which students said could peer into one’s very soul—appeared almost black in the flickering candlelight. At first he made no movement or sound. Amaury found it impossible to detect his breathing. The effect was awe inspiring, supernatural.

A second man entered from the private chambers, his robe black, tied with a black sash. He was younger than Beda, shorter, fuller without being thickset. He had even, almost handsome features, his face placid, unlined. The face of a man who discharged his duty without compunction or guilt. His mien might have been pleasing, even soothing, if not for the fact that his duty was often to order men and women to imprisonment, torture, or agonizing death.

Ory. The Inquisitor. Amaury knew him from the sermons he had preached at Montaigu. Sermons warning of the perils of flouting orthodoxy. Tales of branding, of hacked-out tongues, of slow burning at the stake.

Beda began to speak. You are surprised to see me, he said, his voice grown even more raspy since his exile. His lips moved only slightly, yet his words were clear and seemed to fill the room. Perhaps you thought a mere king could overrule the will of God? He paused and drew in a breath. I have been charged with the stewardship of this faculty for thirteen years, a time when the Church has come under its greatest threat since our Lord Jesus Christ died to establish the True Religion. To protect our Catholic Church from those who would destroy it is a task that requires constant vigilance and my every energy. I work to neither king nor pope, but to God alone. Perhaps you think me extreme?

No, Magister, the Church needs you, Amaury said firmly. Students had died from Beda-ordered floggings.

There exists a disease in the world of Man, Beda rumbled, as if from the pulpit or a mountaintop. "A cancer that seduces the people, does injury to the doctors, detracts from the power of the Church, overtly creates schism, contravenes and distorts Scripture, and blasphemes against the Holy Spirit. It was sown by the Antichrist, Luther, the besotted German who pretends that he alone has more knowledge than all the others in the Church, past or present. He dares to prefer his own judgment to that of the ancients and the doctors of the Church. To add to the sum of impiety, he means to invalidate the decrees of the sacred councils as if God had reserved for him alone the role of discerning what is necessary for the salvation of the faithful.

We declare, Beda went on, his voice rising, bitter in condemnation, and commit our very beings that this wickedness, being destructive of the Christian commonwealth, must be wholly and publicly consigned to the flames. The muscles at the corners of Beda’s jaw twitched and knotted, but he did not move his eyes off Amaury, not even to blink. "Wherever it is found."

His imprecation done, Beda began breathing shallowly, a faint wheeze audible at the end of each breath. He reached out and placed a hand on the side of the lectern for support. Amaury was suddenly looking at an old man. How? Beda must have become ill during his exile. Was the titan close to death? Was Amaury to be somehow a part of his valediction?

I am going to leave you now. Bedas voice had become a grating whisper. But everything that Magister Ory is about to tell you is with my approval and is to be held in the strictest confidence. If that confidence is violated, there is no penalty that will be deemed too severe. None. Do you understand?

Amaury nodded.

Then, in a morning of strange happenings, came the strangest of all. Noël Beda moved slowly from the lectern and placed a hand on Amaury’s shoulder. His steps had become unsteady, but his grip remained powerful. Amaury felt as if he were clutched in a hawk’s talons. Don’t forget, my boy, the old man said. You are to have a great charge. The heretics must be exterminated. Exterminated without compunction or pity, as one would exterminate vermin. You are fighting for the soul of France, perhaps for all of Christendom.

Beda removed his hand from Amaury’s shoulder, turned, and shuffled softly from the room. Just before the door of his private chamber clanked shut, Amaury heard a dry cough.

Ory’s demeanor, deferential in Beda’s presence, hardened once they were alone. He extended his fingers, palm